The moment's resonance finally unraveled before him in the vacant parking garage. The Andromeda of tiny ticking LEDs thrust him into Martha's Vineyard again, and his lungs drew in a kingly gulp of soft air, as he stood back staring at the swaths of stars above. His shadow split into about six hazy directions and rested coldly against the hard cement, a ghost of a compass' arrows. Lethargy flirtily crossed his six foot frame, reminding him that he had not slept in two days.
He was green. And the garage lighting was not at fault here, but rather his own stubborn personality was. His partner and himself had been solving cases for nearly seven years now. By all means, he was certainly qualified to deal with a situation like this. Yet he was not. His heart revved beneath the turtleneck sweater he had carelessly tugged on an hour ago. The red-headed partner's words he always clung on to normally calmed him, but now they fell to the wayside, rolling behind the crack of his beaten couch.
"Fox," a girl's voice cawed, hiding behind an imaginary sycamore. She pronounced his cursed name with a childish, lazy drawl. Faaawwwks. She was one of the two people that could get away with calling him that. "Can you push me on the tire swing?"
He slowly faced her, a tear threatening to spill onto his cheek. "But it's so pretty tonight, Samantha. Why don't you get off and look up at the stars with me?"
His sister sighed. Rolling her eyes, she whipped her head back to the tire, her hazel hair slapping her back. "Not now. I just wanna swing." Fox Mulder caved in, and thoughtfully traversed through the tall grass to meet swing and girl. Samantha quirked her head back at him and smiled, then settled into the worn tire. "Push." Mulder bared a gentle grin as he dreamily reached forward.
His clammy fingers thumped against the rim of his steering wheel.
A sudden crumpled whimper bounced through his small rental car. The lumpy key in the ignition was not turned. The sideview mirrors were turned away from passenger, as if in shame. They didn't want the reflection of such a sappy man to touch their glass. A choked breath shot through him and ricocheted against the blurry dashboard, smacking him the chest like a dodgeball. His fingers dug into the wheel.
"Mr. Mulder, you have Endogenous Depression. A type of major depressive disorder," the stranger in the labcoat had told him. "We can discuss possible a few medications. Or, I can lay out other plausible forms of treatment. Many people have this. It's quite treatable, Mr. Mulder."
The stocky doctor had glanced at Mulder after saying this, as if he hadn't gifted him yet another object for his paranoia and anxiety to latch onto. The man waited for a response. Various thoughts surged through Mulder's mind. Had someone given this to me? Had I been ignorantly burdening my partner with this on every case? Maybe this guy's lying. He was hired to distract me from my work. That's it, I've been set up. That son-of-a-bitch Krycek is waiting behind that goddamn door waiting to sack me over the head. But the nefarious Krycek was not baiting Mulder behind that door, and there was no conspiracy to be prodded now.
The psychiatrist cleared his throat, and Mulder looked up. An uncomfortable silence balanced on a weak rope between them. Mulder's eyes glazed over languidly.
"Well?" The psychiatrist's eyes read "lunch-break." And it was then, that the realization of the man's words had washed over Mulder like a fresh tar, and he sat there staring. His eyes were flying saucers. The lamp on the psychiatrist's desk blinked in amusement. Maybe it was something he had eaten that day. Or, it could've been how obscenely cold it suddenly felt in that small office. Maybe, it was how despite wearing his Nike's, he could distinctly feel his heels digging deeper into the crimson carpet. Earth rocked beneath the cushy chair he hunched in.
The rope snapped, and he ran as fast as he possibly could. He was getting the hell out of there. The narrow halls of the building had all lost its bleary glow from when he had first sauntered in, and in its place now was a blazing inferno. "Phoebe is fire," he had told his partner, Dana Scully, years ago. This place is fire, Scully.
And now, he had somehow floated on home by rental car. Although to him, it did not feel like that-the passing cars lost to a sea of teary bokeh, he had felt alien driving the entire way home. He was blue. And the bright fishtank that sat in the corner of apartment was not at fault here, but rather his own stubborn personality was. His partner and himself had known one another for nearly seven years now. Despite that, fear racked him. He had divulged in Scully minimally over the phone of what had happened, and she sought to comfort him. But he shoved her away by hanging up, and saying that he was fine. Her words bared no effect on him right now.
The fabric of his couch sunk underneath his weight with an audible sigh. Mulder eyed the fishtank again. He'd fed them today, right? The Black Molly, Swordtail, and his small cluster of Bettas circled the tank, free of any concern. They were enclosed in their own little stress-free world. Fish couldn't get diagnosed with any kind of depression. For a while, he appreciated his humble little fish tank.
He believed it to be a pretty reasonable looking fish tank. It was painstakingly kept clean; a stark contrast to the disheveled room where it was plugged in. Mulder often basked in its familiarity. It was there the night he had fallen into the doorway, after he had nearly drank himself to death to forget Scully's cancer. It was there for his fake death. And it was there too, for his unfortunate but shameless porn sessions. The fish had seen every side of him, and were one of the few constants in his life. He exhaled deeply, his anxiety abating. The Swordtail dodged a sparkly stream. He still had that tiny plastic UFO-thing that bobbled in the water, and occasionally spurted bouquets of bubbles. Scully had given that one to him for his birthday in October.
The FBI man stirred on the couch uneasily. He was swimming with the fishes. Or...he would be doing that soon, he mused. But it wasn't productive to think about this at 3:00 AM. Soon, the glow from the fishtank gradually became more and more dim to Mulder, and he fell asleep. For once in his life, he slept without hassle or nightmare, even in spite of everything else that would have normally prompted him to the contrary.
His chest slowly rose and fell, falling into its own rhythm. Floorboards settled. The fishtank gurgled. That night, only those sounds tethered Mulder to the earth, reminding him he was still here.
He was still here.
Mulder gained consciousness and a plan that morning.
April light warmly flooded through his apartment's window. A single red cadillac sluggishly drove past outside, while a kid springily biked by. A soft breeze grazed the air, made its way into the room, and settled to the floor. The nippy breeze tickled his toes in an annoying way. He was still tense. Sundays usually calmed him, but right now that wasn't going to happen.
He couldn't tell Scully. The uncharacteristic nature of this decision frightened him a bit, but he shook it off. No, no. He was struck with the belief that there really was no option in this scenario. Endogenous depression. The words rattled his bones. He actually didn't know what it meant-endogenous-though it still freaked him out.
Scully's probably uttered it at some point. I could just ask her what it means. It's a medical term. She'd know.
He pondered silently for a moment that maybe he perhaps should not have bolted out of that building like an idiot yesterday. If he hasn't done that, he wouldn't feel inclined to ask her. He banished the very thought from his mind, shaking his head. He was such a fool. He couldn't risk burdening her, or possibly making her feel guilty. He felt he had done that enough, and he had told her a sufficient amount over the phone anyway. And really, did he really want to know what this...affliction was? The way the psychiatrist had discussed it him gave him the impression of impending death. He breathed heavily.
A newspaper slapped the other side of the apartment door. Mulder looked up, absently wiping a tear from his eye. He rose, got dressed, and cleaned himself up. And without a hint of hesitance, gripped his steaming coffee mug, and slid out the door. He knew what he had to do.
The Lone Gunmen would easily forge medical papers for him. A lie would be told. The papers are for a case Scully and I are doing, Langley. How will it be used on the case? Oh. It's-it's to, uh, well the details don't pertain to you. But I need it, okay? Thanks. I'll let Scully know about this so uh, so, there's no need for you to discuss this with her. The papers would say he was showing "clear signs of decline." He made a swift turn in the car. An inoperable brain disease would be the thing that's killing him-yes, that would work! The depression thing frightened and embarrassed him. He wouldn't deal with it. This was much easier to belly if anyone asked. Not that anyone would know to ask, though.
"Just in case," he placated himself.
The small file now trembled between clammy fingertips.
He was red. And the lighting of this unusually chilly April afternoon was not at fault here, but rather his own stubborn personality was. His partner and himself had learned to trust each other with many things these past seven years. But he had already decided that this was not one of those things.
He carefully snaked the fake medical file into his own file; a masterful display of paranoia and avoidance. This was simply how Fox Mulder coped with things. Everything was a conspiracy. People always want to hurt you and your partner. Trust No One. He was going to die because of an inoperable brain disease. He sighed, the file cabinet clicking shut.
Next was the gravestone.